


Rainfall

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, it’s a terrible day for rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Cursing his own selfishness, he deliberated with one foot on the narrow, pebbly pathway leading up to the front porch. He could turn back. He wouldn’t have to see her face, probably full of hate at this point, blaming him…
Relationships: Roy Mustang/Riza Hawkeye
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Rainfall

The house looked just as he remembered it, if a bit more overgrown, with a few more roof tiles missing. The rosebushes were just as rampant as ever, and the grass in the front yard nearly reached his knees. But a few things had improved, he noticed. The gate was no longer hanging on a single hinge, like someone had fixed it. Roy wondered if Riza had done it herself, or had gotten someone from town to do it. 

Riza…

He sighed and looked at the dirt road under his boots.Cursing his own selfishness, he deliberated with one foot on the narrow, pebbly pathway leading up to the front porch. He could turn back. He wouldn’t have to see her face, probably full of hate at this point, blaming him…

No. He shook his head to clear it. “I’m not turning back,” he said aloud. Only a mockingbird perched on the crumbling fence heard him. It cocked its head, let out a short caw, and flew away, white wing-spots flashing.

Steeling himself, he began the walk up the pathway. It seemed much shorter than it had been when he’d been seventeen. Every crunch the gravel made under his boots was a whisper of trepidation and warning.  _ She’ll hate you. He’ll hate you. She won’t even let you inside. You left them.  _

_I have a job to do,_ he reminded himself firmly. He needed to learn Flame Alchemy. It was the only way he could become a State Alchemist, he knew it. No one had ever been able to even come close to replicating Master Hawkeye’s control over fire. Plenty had tried.

_ Again with the selfishness, _ his mind hissed as he began to climb the creaking porch steps.  _ You want the alchemy for yourself.  _

_I’m going to apologize, too,_ he protested.  _ I owe it to her, at least. _

_Stop deluding yourself. She’ll never forgive you. Why should she?_

His hand froze over the hawk’s head door knocker. The wind rustled in the unkempt yard around him. A mockingbird twittered, daring him to turn back.  _ You abandoned them. Abandoned her,  _ the voice in his head said again.  _ Just turn back around. You won’t be welcome here anymore. _

He stepped back, wooden boards creaking under his feet. “Dammit,” he growled softly to himself. He had every reason to turn back, every reason to stay. He could leave now, and no one would ever know he’d been here. Was Flame Alchemy really this important? 

He owed her one last apology.

Just that much.

And then he could go.

Before he could stop himself, Roy reached for the brass ring in the metal hawk’s beak and rapped it against the door once. Twice. Hands shaking slightly, he stepped back slightly, hovering just on the edge of the porch, like a frightened animal.  _ Stay or go? Stay or go? _

The door creaked on rusty hinges, slowly beginning to swing inward. He inhaled sharply, heart beating faster than machine-gun fire.  _ Stay or go? Stay or— _

He barely recognized her.

Her blonde hair, still cut short, was lank and dull, falling limply around a thin, pale face. She’d always been slender, but now her wrists were sticklike and bony, her sweater hanging loosely off of her thin frame, with her collarbone painfully prominent above the neckline. Her cheeks were hollow and her her eyes…her eyes. They were still the same shape and same intriguing brown color, but when he’d seen her last, they had been calculating and smoldering, hinting at the fire that lay just beneath the surface. She’d always had traces of melancholy lingering around the edges, coming from having to shoulder too much responsibility too young. But now…now, her eyes just looked tired. Dark shadows like bruises lingered underneath them, the sign of too many sleepless nights and stressful mornings. They were the eyes of someone who had all but given up.

She looked up, and he found himself pinned in place by her gaze—it was just as piercing at ever, even in the half-dead state she appeared to be in now. Her eyes widened slightly with recognition, but faded back to their tired state just as fast. Her gaze flicked from his face, to his uniform, to the stripes on his lapels, back to his face again.

He wanted her to scream. To get angry and slam the door in his face. To show him that she was still capable of an emotion other than the aching sadness he saw in her face. Hell, he knew he deserved it—she should slap him, yell, anything—he deserved it.

But what she did do was much worse.

“Good afternoon, Major Mustang,” she said softly, dipping her head. “Come in. My father expected you.” 

He hadn’t heard her voice in so long. It sounded tired, worn down by her lot in life. But with no trace of anger. She had no use for emotion anymore.

_Major Mustang_.  Like they’d never even met before.

He could have cried.

Roy didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He simply followed her as she walked silently down the all-too-familiar entrance hall. She moved with the same light-footed grace as always, standing tall even as her house crumbled down around her and her father descended into madness. She was still proud. And still so beautiful.

He glanced around the living room—it was still the same as he remembered, with the same intricately patterned rugs on the floor and overstuffed bookcases lining the walls. Riza’s magnificent piano was as clean and polished as ever, but the cover was down and no sheet music was on the stand—she didn’t seem to have played in months. He remembered the times he’d watched in awe as her slender fingers flew across the keys, making music he could only dream of. 

“Would you like some tea?” she asked softly, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Oh…” he said, momentarily forgetting what to say as he remembered. These were the exact words he’d said to him so many years ago, when he’d shown up on her doorstep for the first time, toting a scuffed suitcase and wondering if he was supposed to be there at all. “Tea would be fine, thank you.”

She dipped her head again and slipped silently into the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, he followed her, his footsteps seeming like falling bombs compared to her silent, graceful walk.

He watched her as she carefully filled a porcelain mug with steaming, dark brown liquid, her back to him, narrow shoulders hunched slightly. When she turned back around, she didn’t even look at him as she handed him the mug. Sighing softly, she looked down, standing against the opposite wall of the kitchen, just a few feet away. Her corn-silk bangs shadowed her face.

“I’m sorry, Riza,” he said quietly. The apology was weak and insignificant, but it was all he could think of to say.

“I know,” she said, voice just above a whisper, gazing down at the floor. “But you shouldn’t be.”

“It’s my goddamned fault, Riza,” he said, the words coming out harsher than he meant them to. She looked up with those tired brown eyes and he felt a surge of emotions rise—anger, love, protectiveness, sadness, self-hatred. He’d never been able to control them like Riza had. “Just—I left you, I was the one too selfish to see beyond my own naïve ideals, my own ambitions—”

“And you had every right to,” she said quietly, in that same measured, cautious voice he’d grown to both love and hate. “It was your future. You had every right to pursue it. Don’t apologize for pursuing your ideals and wanting a life different from this one.” 

“But I  abandoned you,” he said. Why couldn’t she understand? 

“No, you didn’t,” she said, fiercer than he’d expected. “You didn’t—you didn’t  _ leave me to the wolves _ . I can take care of myself and my father. You had every right and reason to leave.  _Your life is your own_. ” Her voice broke on the last line. She looked back down at the floor.

He knew he should do something. Comfort her, hug her—even just say something, dammit, he knew he should say something, just couldn’t think of anything to say. Whatever she said, he knew he’d been self-centered to leave them behind without even a second thought. He’d barely loooked back, hadn’t even thought about her living with a shadow of her father in this shadow of a house, until he’d needed to learn Flame Alchemy. How selfish could one person be?

She startled him by speaking again. “He’s in his room. You should do what you came to do.” Her gaze flicked upwards, scanning his face through her lashes, then back down again. 

“Right,” he said, but didn’t move. The word dissolved into the deafening silence. He didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to leave her behind. Again.

She began to brush past him, to leave him before he could leave her, but he caught her wrist as she slipped by. She didn’t even flinch, just stopped and let her hand hang limply in his grasp, waiting. Why couldn’t she just show one sign of emotion? One sign that there was something other than weariness behind her eyes?

“You should go. Do what you came to do,” she repeated. 

“I came to apologize,” he said. Her wrist was too thin to be healthy. He could feel her narrow bones under the skin. Had she been eating?

“Apologize for what?” she asked. “For wanting your own life? Roy, I don’t blame you for leaving. You shouldn’t feel guilty. I don’t hold anything against you.”

“That’s not—” he began.

“What, so you came to apologize but won’t accept forgiveness?” she snapped, still not looking at him. Her voice softened into its normal cautious tone. “You’ve apologized, Roy. Now go talk to Master Hawkeye.” 

He still hadn’t released her wrist, and didn’t want to let go. She was still staring straight ahead, refusing to feel pain, refusing any emotions that dared enter her mind.

He wrapped his arms around her slim waist and pulled her closer to him. She didn’t resist, didn’t react at all, just sighed slightly and tilted her head back to rest on his chest. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing in the smell of home, seeking strength from her presence. He’d always felt safer around her, somehow—he hadn’t even realized it until now, after so long. He felt more safe and secure around this thin, quiet, stoic-to-a-fault girl he’d known for three years than he had when surrounded by heavily armed soldiers with military training. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It would be a losing battle if I told you ‘don’t be,’ wouldn’t it?” she asked softly, a trace of her wry humor emerging in her voice. He nearly sobbed at the familiarity of it. 

“Yes. It would,” he agreed. 

“So all I can really say is ‘I accept your apology,’ correct?”

“Correct.” 

“Then I accept your apology, Roy.” 

After a few moments (all too soon, in Roy’s opinion), she stepped away and turned to face him. Her eyes weren’t on the floor anymore. They were locked on his face. “Do what you came to do, Roy,” she said. “Master Hawkeye is in his room. I’ll leave the two of you alone for however long you need.”

“Thank you, Riza,” he said sincerely. A few years ago, she might have blushed at his thanks, pink spots blossoming on her pale cheeks. Now she simply nodded slightly and left the kitchen.

You can turn back. You’ve apologized. You can leave now, and never have to speak to your old master.

_No_ , he thought.  _I’m done turning back_.

As he crossed the living room, he noticed Riza shuffling stacks of sheet music by the piano. Was she about to play? He found himself walking a slowly as possible to the staircase, waiting for her to finally bring her fingers to the keys. 

But she never did. Instead, Riza simply reorganized a few more papers and put them inside the piano bench, closing the top with a small thump. He thought he saw her sigh as she brushed her fingers along the smooth wooden sides—touching, but not making a sound.

Before she could notice that he was watching her, Roy began climbing the staircase, a bit disappointed. So she had given up piano? That was sad, considering her obvious talent, but he hadn’t really expected anything less. After all, she had been taking care of her father more than usual—alone. He rubbed his forehead as he stepped out onto the second-floor hallway. If he had stayed…No. There was no use for speculating now. He had a job to do. 

Footsteps creaking loudly, he made his way slowly down the hall, passing the familiar doors and paintings. Nothing had changed—well, perhaps the level of tarnish on the doorknobs, or the number of scuff marks on the wainscoting, but that was barely noticeable. He silently marveled at how well-preserved the old place was—Riza had undoubtedly kept the place neat as a pin after he left, just as she had done for years and years.

Roy paused outside the door to Master Hawkeye’s bedroom, hand hovering just a few inches away from the wood. When his teacher saw him in his military uniform, with the star of a major…that wouldn’t be a pretty sight. How many times had he heard his teacher spit out the name of the military as if it left a bad taste in his mouth, or say that soldiers, especially State Alchemists, had sold their souls to the country to become mindless slaves to a selfish cause?

He remembered Riza. And knocked.

“Come in, child,” a weak voice answered. He hadn’t heard that voice in years, but it was fainter than he remembered. Just how sick was Master Hawkeye? He thought of Riza having to take care of him, all by herself, and felt a fresh stab of guilt. 

Gripping the doorknob tightly, Roy slowly opened the door and stepped inside. He’d only been inside this room a few times—the last time had been to say goodbye to the man who had taught him so much before leaving for the military academy. Master Hawkeye had been angry then…just how angry would he be now that his best pupil had really and truly given his life to the cause he detested?

The room seemed smaller than he remembered, with only a small table, an armchair, and a bookcase besides the large bed in the middle of the far wall. The two windows had had their curtains drawn, letting in only a faint glow from beneath the fabric. A water glass of daffodils lay on a small table next to the bed, doing little to brighten up the dark room.

Perhaps the room seemed smaller because the man occupying it seemed smaller as well. Master Hawkeye was sitting up in bed, his back propped against a tall stack of pillows, skeleton-like hands clutching the book of poetry lying in his lap. His face was gaunt and hollow, but his dark blue eyes hadn’t lost their piercing quality, staring at him from deep within their sockets. Berthold had always been a thin man, looking somewhat like a scarecrow from devoting his life to his alchemical work and barely giving a second thought to material concepts such as food, water, or sleep. Riza had had to make sure he didn’t simply waste away while in his study. 

But now, he looked like a living skeleton. Just what had this sickness done to him? Again, Roy thought of Riza, how she undoubtedly blamed herself for her father’s state. She’d always had a habit of blaming herself for things that were out of her control.

His eyes, such a different color than his daughter’s but just as soul-baring, raked over Roy, from the navy blue of his military uniform to the ribbon on his jacket. His thin lips curled into a sneer. “So you’ve decided to become a soldier after all. That’s all the proof I need. You’re not ready to learn flame alchemy.”

“But sir, I am. It’s the only thing left.” Roy said, bracing himself. His teacher’s eyes were burning with unsupressed hatred. He faltered, nearly not continuing, but forged ahead. He had come here for a reason, and he wasn’t about to leave without trying, dammit. “I mean, haven’t I already mastered the fundamentals of alchemy?”

“Of course you have. and I regret even teaching you that much, now that I know what you plan on using it for.” He gave a rasping cough.

“But...alchemy should be used for the people, shouldn’t it?” Roy was practically begging now. “Master, our country is constantly under threat from all sides. The military needs alchemists. It’s a matter of defending our homes. We don’t—“

“I’m tired of hearing that vile rhetoric!” he spat, growling a bit on the last words. More rasping coughs filled the room. 

Roy grimaced internally, hating the sound. How much had the sickness progressed over the months he’d been away? “I can’t stand to see you like this. There’s no reason for a man of your stature to suffer in this kind of squalor! If you would simply join the military, you could get grants for your research! You could—“

Master Hawkeye’s eyes burned with satisfaction. “I don’t need a grant for something I’ve already completed.” 

Roy’s eyes widened. Master Hawkeye had been working on theorems and diagrams since before Roy had even become his apprentice. And now, after so long... “You finished your research?” 

“I’ve created the most powerful alchemy. It would only cause tragedy if I placed it in the wrong hands. And now that I’ve finished it, I’ve allowed myself to grow complacent.” Master Hawkeye scowled, looking disgusted with himself.

Roy gulped. What was he saying?

Master Hawkeye’s thin mouth twisted into a grimacing smile. “We alchemists are hungry creatures. We must continue the hunt for knowledge as long as we live. If we forgo pursuing the truth, then we allow ourselves to die. Trust me, I’ve been dead for a long time.” He coughed and fell sideways, the book of poetry falling from his grasp. 

“Master!” Roy cried, rushing to his side. A thin trickle of blood fell from the corners of his mouth. “Master Hawkeye, are you all right?” His eyes were glassy and staring, slowly losing the glint of life. No. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening.

After months of slowly wasting away, Master Hawkeye’s body was surprisingly light, but Roy found his hands shaking as he tried to hold his old teacher upright. He saw what was happening as if in a dream, heart beating much too fast, mind blank and full of racing thoughts all at the same time. This couldn’t be happening. Roy couldn’t be watching his teacher’s life slip between his fingers, powerless to help him.

Master Hawkeye looked towards him, and Roy was surprised by the sudden intensity in his gaze. “Look after...my daughter.” he choked out. More blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. “She’s...in possession of my research.” He closed his eyes. “Look after her...”

Roy was left staring at the unmoving face of his old mentor, still supporting his limp body in his arms. No. No. It wasn’t—no. This wasn’t happening. Master Hawkeye had seen worse than this. He would open his eyes any time now, he wouldn’t let a sickness take him, he was more obstinate than that—

He heard a small noise, like a tiny gasp, and looked up. Riza was standing in the open doorway, one hand clutching the side of the frame, a look of utter horror on her face. Her hands started shaking. With a wild cry, she flew to her father’s side, nearly knocking into Roy. “Father,” she choked out. “Father…wake up, Papa.” Her entire body was shaking now, narrow shoulders shuddering like a leaf in a hurricane. She touched her father’s still-warm forehead with a shivering hand, then pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, searching for anything,  _anything_ , to show that her father was still alive. 

“Get Doctor Walter,” she said, voice surprisingly steady. Roy didn’t move, still frozen in place. She turned towards him, eyes bright with unshed tears that she was desperately trying to hold in. “Go!” Her voice broke.

“Right,” Roy said, and fled. As he left the room, he heard Riza speaking softly to only air, voice still strong as her body was shaking and her world crumbled down around her.

“Papa. Papa. No. Not him. Please, not him. He’s all I have left.” 

He was glad for the cold wind as he ran as fast as he could down the dirt road into town, boots pounding on the dusty soil. 

Maybe it could blow some of his tears away.

When he returned with the gray-haired country doctor, Riza still hadn’t left her father’s side. She was standing next to where his body lay in the bed, both hands clutching one of his cold, lifeless ones. She was still shaking uncontrollably, and her eyes were wide and staring. No tear tracks had made their way down her cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her cry.

“You have to let go of him, Miss Hawkeye,” Dr. Walter said kindly, placing a soothing hand on her narrow forearm. She jerked away from him at the touch, eyes wild, crouched in a defensive position like a cornered animal, still refusing to let go of her father’s cold hand. 

“Riza,” Roy said quietly. “Come on. Please.”

Her head snapped around to look at him, brown eyes pinning him in place. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her lips twitched, like she was going to say something. 

Then, faster than he’d ever seen her move, she let go of her father and bolted past him, out of the bedroom and into the hall. Gone before he could blink. Roy started to follow, but Dr. Walter put out a hand before he could. “Give her time alone,” he advised. “Her entire world just collapsed. She might not be able to speak for a while, or move, or think clearly. I’ve seen it happen before. Let her be alone for a bit.”

Roy nodded mutely, eyes wandering back to his teacher’s still form. He could have been sleeping, if it weren’t for the traces of blood near his mouth. Roy couldn’t shake the feeling that this was his fault. If he hadn’t come…no, that wouldn’t have done anything, the sickness had taken Master Hawkeye, it hadn’t had anything to do with him. And if he hadn’t come when he did, Riza would have had to watch him die, alone…he nearly shuddered at the thought.

“You’re Roy Mustang, correct? His old pupil?” Dr. Walter asked, bending down and placing a practiced hand on Master Hawkeye’s sternum, checking for any remaining sign of life.

“Yes, sir,” Roy said weakly.

“We all missed you when you left those years ago,” he continued. “Wondered why the town was so much quieter.”

Roy nodded mutely.

“You were good for her, you know,” Dr. Walter said, pausing in his checking of Master Hawkeye’s vitals to look up at him. “Riza. We didn’t see her around much until you came. Only came to town for what she needed, then left without saying a word. No child should live like that.” 

Roy remembered thinking the exact same thing when he had first come to the Hawkeye manor and realized that Riza was taking care of her father and the house all on her own. She’d had to grow up much too fast, shouldered responsibility much too young.

“I thought so too,” he said, voice shaking slightly. He swallowed before he could start crying.

“You did her good. You did both of them good,” Dr. Walter said, straightening. “Remember that, Mr. Mustang.” He brushed the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. “He’s gone. You should tell her. Make sure she knows.”

Roy nodded again, still silent, and walked slowly out of the room. As soon as he was in the safety of the dark hallway, he let the tears fall. A soldier doesn’t cry. But he wasn’t a soldier. He was Roy Mustang, alchemy apprentice, whose teacher had just died and left his only daughter with no one to live for.

Somehow, he knew where she would be.

The attic was in the very top floor of the house, set just beneath the sloping roof. The dormer windows lining the walls let in shafts of cold sunlight, illuminating the old boxes and furniture strewn about on the floorboards. He and Riza had spent entire afternoons up here, he remembered—going through boxes of memories, watching the sunset through the windows, or just reading and enjoying each other’s company. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that. Just there was the spot where she had fallen asleep with a book in her hand and he had had to carry her back to her room.

One of the windows was open. Riza stood just in front of it, with her arms braced on the sill and her back to him, still shaking uncontrollably. Cold wind whipped through the room, chilling him more than it should have. 

“Roy,” she said without turning around. Her voice sounded choked.

He cautiously walked up to stand next to her, gazing out over the front yard and the dirt road beyond, marked with the imprints of horse hooves and wagon wheels. She still wasn’t crying. The wind whipped at her short hair and thin sweater— he couldn’t tell if her shaking was from the cold or shock.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said as he opened his mouth. “Because it’s not your fault at all.” Even as she was trembling uncontrollably, her voice was still steady. She looked down. “It’s mine.”

“No, it’s not,” he said automatically. He turned to face her, taking both of her cold, shivering hands in his own. A violent shudder ran through her body at his touch, but he refused to release her. 

“If I had taken better care of him, I could have prevented this. I could have kept him alive,” she insisted. She looked so small and fragile, like one wrong touch would have her shatter into a thousand pieces. 

“It’s not your fault, Riza,” he repeated, voice breaking. “None of this is. Please. Come back downstairs. It’s getting cold.”

She inhaled shakily, and he noticed that tears were finally streaming down her face. “I’m s-sorry,” she managed. She was shaking even more now, and he didn’t know how to stop it, how to comfort her, because what the hell could he do to make the pain of losing a parent go away?

Roy pulled her into another wordless hug, her body feeling painfully small and breakable against his. She started crying in earnest, long, aching sobs, muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder. He ran a hand up and down her back, then through her short hair, trying to comfort her without being the one to break her. She was more vulnerable now than he’d ever seen her. Even when they had been kids, she’d always been careful to keep her emotions hidden away in a place no one could reach. He’d seen her openly angry very few times, and seen her cry even fewer. Roy had never been able to comprehend how she did it.

“It’s going to be okay, Riza,” he whispered as she shuddered and sobbed. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if she could, even. She kept shaking. Why was she still shaking? Why couldn’t he do a single damn thing for her? He could just stand there, useless, as the girl he loved was breaking apart right next to him.

Useless.

Riza had insisted he spend the night in his old room, on the third floor of the manor. He hadn’t protested—after all, he’d taken a standard three-day leave, and this was only his second day. 

Her sobs had woken him close to midnight. Her room was right next to his, separated by wainscoting and blue-gray wallpaper. They both had nightmares, he knew—when he had been apprenticed under Master Hawkeye, the younger girl had sometimes kept him awake with muffled cries and small sobs. 

_ “Mr. Mustang?” _

_ “Oh—Miss Hawkeye. I—you’re all right?” _

_ She blinked, only half of her face showing through the barely-open door. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?” _

_ “I heard noises coming from your room, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.” He shifted uncomfortably in bare feet, freezing floorboards chilling him to the bone. _

_ She looked down, pale bangs shadowing her face. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quieter. I assure you, no harm is coming to me. I simply have nightmares.” She sometimes talked like she had swallowed a textbook. It was strange, hearing those words from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old girl. _

_ “Oh—well, I have nightmares too, so I know what it’s like. You’re fine, the noises don’t bother me all that much—” How was he supposed to explain that he’d knocked on her door because the thought of someone causing her pain made him so angry he could hardly breathe before he managed to get his emotions under control? _

_ Before he could talk himself into a corner, Miss Hawkeye intervened with a small bob of her head. “I thank you for your concern, Mr. Mustang, but please, go back to sleep. I’m fine.” _

But this wasn’t anything like the tiny, near-silent cries of four years ago. He couldn’t imagine what was happening to her, just that she was in horrible pain and _needed help, dammit_. He sat up, then lay back down, cursing himself.  She’ll just say she’s fine and tell you to go back to sleep , the rational part of his brain said.  Why go to her at all?

 _ Because she needs help! Because she’s in pain! _ the other part of his brain screamed.  _ You’re not just going to sit by when she’s just a few feet away, are you? _

Finally, the screaming part of his brain won. He padded softly to the door and out into the hall. Riza’s door was shut tightly—probably locked, as well. Before he could lose his nerve, he tapped it twice with his index finger. The sobbing shuddered to a halt. He could picture Riza breathing deeply, wiping the tears from her eyes on her quilt—any sign she had shown emotion had to be neatly hidden until she was alone again. 

When she opened the door, her eyes were dry, but they were a bit red around the edges, and her nose looked a bit pinker than usual. Her hands, clenched as they were around the hem of her thin cotton shirt, were still shaking uncontrollably, and it looked like she was trying desperately to still them. Her short hair was mussed on one side, and he resisted the urge to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ear. 

“Hello, Roy,” she said quietly, dipping her head slightly. Her voice was surprisingly steady. 

“Riza, are you all right?” he asked, getting straight to the point. 

She hesitated a bit before responding. “I’m fine,” she replied softly, looking away.

“No, you’re not,” Roy said, catching her wrist before he could stop himself. Her eyes shot towards him, then back down to the floor. She didn’t move, didn’t try to pull away. Just stood there, limp, not acting or reacting. 

He hated it.

“Riza, please,” he said. “Why do you have to be like this?”

“Like what?” she snapped back. She was finally showing _some_ emotion, at least.

He waved the hand that wasn’t holding her wrist. “This. You won’t cry. You won’t allow yourself to feel anything. All I’m asking is why.” 

She lifted her chin slightly, large brown eyes finally meeting his. Shadows beneath them, sadness inside them, boring into his soul without effort, pinning him in place. “Because I start crying, I won’t be able to stop.” She held his gaze, refusing to look to the floor like she had always done before. 

The memories came rushing back at him. Her deep breathing whenever she was frustrated at something in one of her textbooks. Waiting exactly three seconds to respond to a hurtful comment to remove all traces of emotion from her voice. The time he’d found her crying over a nest of dead birds, and she had apologized profusely and hidden her face as soon as she had seen him. Was that why? Because she felt she had to keep her feelings bottled up, lest they come rushing out in an uncontrollably?

“Then you’re not crying,” Roy managed. “It’s raining, is all.”

She blinked, the overwhelming weariness in her eyes giving way to a spark of confusion. He’d missed the way her right eyebrow quirked upwards slightly when he had really and truly puzzled her. “It’s not raining, Roy. And we’re inside.”

“No, it’s just rain,” he said, willing her to understand. 

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh,” she said softly. The corners of her eyes looked suspiciously bright. “It really is a terrible time for rain, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” he choked out. He reached out a hand to swipe at the droplet tracing its way down her cheek. “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know. Tissue, anyone? Virtual hugs all around.


End file.
